


Just Desserts

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Archivist Jonathan Sims, Body Horror, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Eyes, Gen, Introspection, Non-Sexual Kink, Statement Eating, Statement Fic, Stomach Ache, Stuffing, TMA season 4, canon-typical voyeurism/exhibitionsim, complicated relationship with eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: Statement of Jonathan Simms, The Archivist, regarding… dinner. Recorded direct from subject.Statement begins.--Jon reads too many statements.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 115





	Just Desserts

**Author's Note:**

> So fun fact I wrote this in a flurry back when I was still working through season 4, before I listened to Scrutiny, before the idea of Jon feeding on people had really been explored. I was extrapolating, and the RQ team likes indulging me apparently lmao.
> 
> I’ve edited it somewhat, but I’m not too worried about it fitting neatly into canon. It’s sometime between the coffin and Scrutiny, though.
> 
> Anyways, I was nervous so I didn’t post it for a long time, but here it is! Gotta be on brand, right?
> 
> General warnings for not great eating habits, and the focus being on Jon giving himself a stomach ache by eating/reading way too much. Also season 4 typical angst.

Statement of Jonathan Sims, The Archivist, regarding… dinner. Recorded direct from subject.

Statement begins.

…

Ever since we stopped the Unknowing, things have been... different. _I_ have been different, or, that's what the people around me have been telling me. I haven't felt different. I mean, sure, I've got more insight, more "spooky powers" as Basira has been calling them. And, contrary to what anyone might think, I'm not entirely a fool. I've known, somehow, that I'm not really human anymore, but I haven’t wanted to think about it. To really… Know.

Hah. Well. That's what the Beholding is all about, isn't it? Knowing, no matter how much you wish you didn't? So I suppose it was only a matter of time before I was forced to reckon with my own metamorphosis in some type of visceral way. And I think that's happened. Or, started happening.

I don't--

...

I eat... Statements. Words, maybe. I read them, and it’s the same as eating them. I don't know if... I don't know if they've replaced my need for food or are just an alternate source of energy but that is the closest I can come to making sense of it. I. Eat. Statements.

I've known that they revive me since I began traveling, following Gertrude Robinson's journey in an attempt to prevent the Unknowing. No matter how weak I felt, no matter how grisly or unsettling the statement, I just had to read it aloud and I felt better. Elias knew; he made sure there was always one or two available. The others suspected, of course. Probably thought it was some type of addiction, and honestly, I can see how they'd come to that conclusion. I'll admit the idea had occurred to me, though at the time it hardly seemed like my most pressing concern. 

As time has gone on the need for statements and the benefit of reading them has only grown more acute. At this point I'm not sure I could make it more than a few days without one, and I'm certain I don't want to try. In some ways, the siege on the Archives is... it's fine. It’s not fine, but this is where the statements are and if I've got to be locked away, I'd rather here than anywhere else.

I've been sticking to one, maybe two statements a day. A carryover from when they drained more than they replenished, I think. I read one and the effects will last for several hours, during which I can do my other work or... or anything else I need to do.

Yesterday I... wasn't feeling right. Restless from being cooped in, maybe, or fatigued, or hungry, or just... lonely. It's so lonely here. I can't even talk to--

It's fine. I'm fine. Suffice it to say that I read a statement, number, ah, 9921212. Patricia Dunn. Then, without anything else capturing my attention, I read another, 9710619, Ryan Sedvy. I don’t think the filing system matters in this case, but… I don’t know. Maybe the contents of one of them is the reason for my... physical reactions, maybe this was some trick of the Flesh, but...

Somehow I doubt it. 

When I started the third, 9190803, Elise Zhang, I was sure it would be my last of the day. Three statements is… it’s a lot. Even when they revive me they also drain me, if that makes any sense at all. But after finishing it the urge to keep reading was stronger than ever. There was this feeling. In my throat, in my chest, in my stomach. A warm surety that _this_ was what I was supposed to be doing. I read the fourth statement, Paula Soong, 0071618, and that cleared my desk. If I wanted to keep reading I was going to have to go and get more material.

It should have been simple enough, but when I tried to stand I felt an unexpected weight in my stomach that, as I moved, flirted with sensations of nausea and pain. I sat down, of course, but now that I'd taken notice of it the heaviness didn't go away. It felt like I was full. Like I had _eaten._ There was nothing-- there _couldn’t_ have been anything-- solid inside my stomach. I checked my teeth, my breath, I scoured my office for traces that I'd blacked out and, I don’t know, devoured several sandwiches, but there was nothing besides the last third of a cold cup of tea.

That didn't change the fact that I felt full. And that was… new. When I rested a hand on my stomach it met taut skin, when I pressed I could feel volume pressing back. It wasn't moving, wasn't _alive,_ wasn't making me sick. It simply felt like I'd eaten to excess, something that I really haven't done since university. Food hasn't been much of a priority in a while.

There was, of course, one obvious conclusion: I had been consuming these statements in a tangible way. I was eating what I read, what I spoke aloud. It wasn't something that I Knew, something that dropped into my mind unprompted. Still. Once I'd hit upon the thought I couldn't find a single reason it shouldn't be true, that this weird physical consequence was anything but a… a natural part of what I was becoming.

So I did... nothing. Well, that's not quite true. I started paying attention. I sat and waited for my stomach to settle, to digest, I suppose. And it, er, behaved almost exactly how I’d expect from a belly full of food. I, uh, hm.

I kept thinking of Gertrude, wondering if she’d felt the same sort of effects, wondering if she fared better than I did, or worse. Wondering if she’d recorded a statement along these lines that I could find somewhere in the Archives, now that I’d figured part of it out for myself. I can’t be sure, but I know she didn’t have quite the same relationship with the statements, the tape recorders, that I do. I wonder if this is another difference or… 

After about three-quarters of an hour I had “digested” enough that I felt confident leaving my office to retrieve more statements. Yes. I know. it’s just… I had planned to record and I... I had to investigate this new discovery. I had to _know._

Statement 9880102 by Kevin Dinsdale felt good. I don’t care if it’s concerning to put it that way. I don’t care if it’s concerning to hear that, now that I was thinking about it, I could taste the statements as well. Reading them produced a slow creeping of flavor through my mouth; different for each one. Kevin Dinsdale had shared an encounter with the Dark. It tasted smooth and bitter the whole way through, almost like coffee but… not. It’s hard to describe.

Heh. Makes it hard to sleep at night, whichever way you look at it.

Ahem. Statements about the Buried tend toward salty and dry, while ones about the Flesh are, predictably, meaty. The Web is sweet, cloying, and… It’s not an exact science. Not yet. There’s variation between statements about the same type of entity, maybe based on the quality of the statement or the way the person feels fear or... 

I like it. The taste. I… it feels right.

But yes. Reading that statement felt good, and afterwards I could tell that it’d had it’s effect. I was more full than I had been an hour ago, my stomach stretched tight around whatever mass was inside.

I was starting to feel... unwell, at this point. I was too full to really breathe deeply. I, uh, I found that rubbing gently reduced some of the dull ache of taut flesh, as did taking a few cautious sips of water. If I was careful, if I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, rested by hand on my belly for the warmth, it was very nearly comfortable. I haven’t been sleeping well these days but… I was full and hazy and I found myself almost to dropping off.

But I didn’t give myself the chance before reaching for the next file, pressing my stomach painfully against the table as I dragged it, and all the others, into easy reach. I sat there a moment, staring at the name on the label, 0140909, Scarlett Star, trying to guess how many words were in it, how much fear, what it would taste like, how it would feel inside of me.

And then I read statement six.

It was not, perhaps, the wisest decision I've ever made. I'm certainly still feeling the effects of it today. That's partially why I'm recording my own statement rather than... reading any more. The thought of-- ugh.

Wise or not I kept reading. It's easier, I think, to keep reading than to keep eating. By the end of the statement I was feeling well and truly sick, a situation not helped by the fact that this one had been about the Spiral. It tasted like warm milk and, rather appropriately given the subject matter, made my stomach turn.

The water barely helped at all. 

I read the seventh.

It was... too much.

Halfway through I stopped to undo my belt. By the time the statement was over, I’d had to… undo my trouser button as well. I was exposed, vulnerable, my indignity and incapacitation on display for anyone who might come through that door. If Basira had seen me like that she would have been furious. Melanie could’ve just killed me then and there, and Daisy, well, if nothing else I wouldn’t have wanted her to stick around. And Martin... I don’t know. In the old days he might have been confused or… glad, maybe, to see I was indulging myself? But now… I really don’t know.

I don’t…

I’ve never liked cartoons where characters eat and eat and blow up like.... fleshy balloons. To be fair, I’ve never really liked cartoons, but those always unsettled me, reminded me of the Leitner I'd come across as a child: Mr. Spider’s bulging midsection and the brutality that fed it.

It was sometime after the seventh statement that it occurred to me that I was becoming the figure I’d loathed for so long. Here I was, stomach swollen, feasting on the fear that others had provided for my enjoyment. I had a vision of myself in the future, years, months, maybe weeks, demanding statement after statement with increasing cruelty, glutting myself on their misery. 

Mr. Spider had never been coming for me. He _was_ me.

Saying it now I… I don’t like it. Makes me feel sick. But when the thought occurred to me in the gluttonous haze of knowledge and fear I didn’t really think about it.. It just seemed like another piece of the puzzle slotting into place and I was filled with a rush of pleasure at the understanding.

It was during the eighth statement that I began to feel every individual word as it pressed outward against the taut skin of my distended stomach.

I don't recommend listening to those recordings. 

At some point, the door to my office had opened. I know it had been locked when I sat down, but now it was ajar. I could see just a sliver of the hall, and I knew without a doubt that anyone walking past could turn the simplest glance my way and find me bloated and exposed. I didn’t make any attempt to close the door. It would have been difficult to get up, to say the least, and I don’t think it would have made any difference.

And I have to wonder… did I want someone there? Would it have changed something if someone had seen? Did I want someone to try and, I don’t know, help somehow?

It… doesn’t matter.

All of this, I’m sure, was for the Eye. It had to be. And if the Eye wanted me to be found I would have been, no matter what precautions I took. I was, I _am_ , doing things… for its whims, I think?

It was watching me. I could feel that prickling on my skin, the tightness in the back of my neck. Maybe it thought I was doing something of consequence or maybe it just thought I was being very, very foolish, but whatever the reason, knowing it was there only... encouraged me. It kept me from lingering too long, as though I didn’t want it to get bored by the wait. A bit silly perhaps, but… it seemed to make all the difference between my actions being professional curiosity and being some mundane late-night binge to cover up my own loneliness.

I didn’t want to read the ninth.

It was too much. I was more full than I could ever remember being. The ache in my stomach spread through my back, my legs, my jaw which had been speaking almost constantly for over three hours. My head throbbed. My throat was dry and the bottle of water in my desk drawer was long since empty. The words, the fears, whatever it was I’d eaten churned inside me. My mind, too, was full of conflicting images and impulses. The details have come back to me today, but last night I couldn’t have told you what the last several statements were even about.

I picked the statement up, put it down again. Pressed play only to groan into the microphone and rewind back over myself. 

And it was like that, seemingly ready to burst, that I truly felt the Lonely around me.

I knew what Peter Lukas _was_ , of course. Well. I had a vague idea. The door in my mind hasn’t told me anything about him, I don’t Know anything. But me, there, stuffed to the brim? It was like… it was like painting watercolors over the lines of a white crayon. The paint slides off the wax and suddenly you can read marks on what had seemed, at first glance, like blank, ordinary, paper. By saturating myself I could feel, glaringly white, the coils of nothingness around and within me, massive tendrils of absence. For the first time I could See that it wasn’t Peter Lukas’s presence that was disrupting the archives, but everything that he was taking away, just by virtue of being here.

And there I was. Achingly aware of my fullness, and at the same time of my emptiness. Everything _hurt_ and I remember writhing in my seat trying to relieve some of the pressure. It did nothing but make my distress more obvious to whatever was watching me. I squirmed harder.

Maybe I wanted somebody to hear me, to come in, to look at me and tell me what I’d become. Maybe I want somebody to hear me recording now, or… 

I read the ninth.

It didn’t have to be like this. If this many statements revealed the existence of the Forsaken, maybe with enough I could drive it out, or at least... get a better look at what I was dealing with.

I read the tenth. 

And then I wasn’t anything I recognized at all. 

Things… started warping. Me, or the room, or… I would blink, I would close my eyes in, well, agony, but I would still be able to see just at a different angle. I think I… I remember resting my arm on the desk and feeling something _squish_. By that point I was beyond being able to distinguish different types of pain but I think it should have hurt, I think…. I think there was an eye embedded in my forearm. I think there were more. On other parts of my face, on my legs, the swell of my belly, my neck, but I couldn’t… check, I couldn’t count them. I couldn’t even move. I could only read.

After that… I don’t know. Everything blurs into words and tastes and pain. At some point I passed out but I hadn’t been really conscious for quite a while before that. I don’t remember crying, but I woke up with tear tracks on my face. What a… heh. What a sight I must have been. I--

_Oh.  
_

That’s, uh--

Well, I can confirm it now. I _was_ a sight. And I was-- I was right about the eyes. 

...

What do I… what do I do with this?

I know I’ve been… the way I’ve been taking statements has been… but that wasn’t anything like this.

It’s clearly something for the Beholding though I don’t know what good it’s done. Maybe Elias orchestrated it somehow? I know he’s in prison but he could have… he could have done something. This is whatever lesson he wants me to learn next, maybe? Or it was the Web, planning something. They’re always planning.

The alternative is that it’s just me, it’s my desires, my hunger, my… No.

...

As far as I know nobody else knows what’s happened and I intend to keep it that way. I’ll just… this tape isn’t going into the Archives. I’ll store it somewhere else for my own personal reference, and… I’m not going to read any more statements for a while. Maybe I’ll just go, uh, lie down.

I don’t feel good.

Statement ends.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear what you thought. 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, twitter as @beardspores, and dreamwidth as dwarvenbeardspores.


End file.
